


o·ver·stim·u·late

by Princex_N



Category: Lazer Team (2015)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, Crying, Fluff, Frustration, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Intellectual Disability, Neurodiversity, Post-Canon, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: Sometimes the helmet only helps so much.





	o·ver·stim·u·late

**Author's Note:**

> I prefer to look at the helmet as working as assistive tech rather than a cure. Plus, it probably _wasn't_ made with neuroatypical people in mind, and all technology has its limitations, so. Here's a fic about that; bad days and your assistive tech suddenly dropping the ball in a major way.

Woody had thought that, with the helmet, he wouldn't really have to deal with things like this anymore. 

It  _is_ true when it comes to some things at least, but apparently not this. Or maybe there are just limits to how much the helmet can do at once (After all, the alien technology was incredible, but it probably wasn't made with people like Woody in mind, what with it being intended for champion warriors and all). 

So, Woody had thought that he was more or less safe, and that means he's completely unprepared for when it finally hits. 

He's been working with the scientists for what feels like hours while the others do physical training, or maybe it would be more accurate to say that the scientists are working with the  _helmet_ while Woody sits there and watches the screen and acts as more of a mouth piece. There are three of the scientists that have been at it for a while, asking questions at rapid fire pace to test the conclusions and processing rates of the helmet's scenarios. 

The helmet is good at doing more than one thing at once. Woody isn't so much so. 

The problem is that Woody doesn't like to disappoint people, and talking has gotten easier but he's still not good at standing up for himself, and so Woody doesn't ask for a break even though he knows he probably definitely needs one. 

He lets them ask their questions and tries to follow along and keep from squinting at the too bright display as definitions and calculations and diagrams flash in front of his eyes, but despite his best efforts he still winds up stuttering and tripping over words - the way he used to - after a while, and it's probably more annoyance than anything else that finally prompts them to let him leave. 

His limits are bigger than they used to be, but Woody is no stranger to the feeling he gets when he's pushed himself too hard, and so he wanders back to their section of the barracks to hopefully get a moment to himself before he's inevitably summoned to do something else. 

It's just that he's not the only one who's had that idea. 

The other three are there too, sprawled out in their bunks looking tired and kind of sweaty, and Woody tries not to feel disappointed. He considers trying to find somewhere else to rest, but even in the wake of their success saving the planet, Lazer Team still doesn't have clearance to go to most of the base, and Woody doesn't fancy the idea of being found somewhere he shouldn't be and getting shouted at. 

So, instead he just forces his shoes off and clambers up onto his bunk and wishes, not for the first time, that there was a way to get this damn helmet  _off_. 

He closes his eyes against the too-bright colors of the visor's display, and doesn't open them again so that he can mute the helmet's volume because he might miss something important if he does. He listens to Herman bitch about the physical exercise and Hagan telling him to shut the fuck up, and the tell-tale noises of Zach skyping Mindy, and tells himself that he's  _fine_ because he doesn't have to worry about this stuff anymore. He has the helmet, so he's okay. 

He tells himself this up until one of the trainers calls all four of them to run through some more practice battle simulations, and he repeats it to himself as he blinks away warnings on the helmet without looking at them, and as he nearly falls as he steps down from the top bunk, and as he sits down on the floor to get his shoes back on. 

It's just getting his fucking shoes on, but he winds up with the shoe on the wrong foot, and Woody blinks uncomprehendingly at it for a moment. He's used to this, but it's been so long since he's actually done it that it takes him a moment to process what he's done. He checks the bottom of the boot, and is forcibly reminded that these were given to him by the military and don't have the guides that his old shoes had printed on the soles. He forces himself to breathe and he tries again, forcing his foot in past the almost-too-tight laces and double checks to make sure that he's got it right before pulling on the other one. 

The only thing he has to do now is tie them, and then he can go catch up with the others and get the practice done, and that should be the last thing on his schedule today, so he should be fine after that. 

But his fingers are stiff and unwieldy in the way that they haven't been in weeks, and Woody can't get the damn laces tied. He  _knows_ how to do this, and he  _has_ been doing this, but the movements are jerky and uncoordinated and he cannot get the damn fucking laces tied. 

He can feel tears trickling down the sides of his face, and without thinking he goes to wipe them away because it's unnecessary and embarrassing, but his hand smacks ineffectually against the helmet's visor instead. He can blink the fuzzy blurriness of the tears out of his eyes, but there's nothing he can do about the unpleasantly cool and sticky feel of them on his cheeks, and that's  _frustrating_ which only makes him cry harder, which makes tying his shoes more difficult as well. 

He doesn't  _understand_. 

"Hey Woody, are you - Hey man, what's wrong?" Herman has walked back into the room and frozen in the doorway, taking in the sight of Woody crouched by the foot of the bunk, one hand tugging ineffectually at a shoe lace and the other pressed angrily against the side of the helmet. 

And the helmet is  _supposed_ to be helping, but it isn't. Woody searches for words, but can't get his thoughts to connect right and he stumbles through several failed attempts at speech before cutting off into a wordless groan of frustration and slamming his head back against the metal support beam of the bunk-bed. 

"Alright kid, calm down. If you need help with your shoes you've just got to ask. You know your man Herm is here to help," Herman says, voice soft but pitches with panic as he kneels down in front of Woody's feet. 

Only it's not  _just_ the shoes anymore. It's being woken up early and not being able to actually eat anymore and spending all day running calculations with the helmet and pushing himself too hard and not being able to coordinate his limbs or tie his shoes or find words or speak them correctly or wipe the minging tears off of his face or stop crying or  _anything_. 

Woody has been used to all of that. He hadn't been good at doing most, or any, of those things before all of his happened, but he had also gotten used to being able to actually do most of them, and it's unspeakably frustrating to suddenly  _lose_ all of it at once. 

"Woody," Herman says quietly, and Woody looks up at the older man sitting in front of Woody's now tied boots, and Woody should say something, explain, but he can't. "Man, come here." 

Woody shuffles forward immediately and presses up against Herman's shoulder, feels the older man's arms wrap around him with crushing pressure, and tries to just breathe. 

They don't do this often. Herman doesn't like to break the callous exterior he fronts, and Woody just doesn't  _need_ it all that much anymore. He had gotten better at controlling his frustration as he got older, and had gotten better at doing some things, and had less things to do in the first place after he'd dropped out of school and hadn't been able to find too many people actually willing to work with him, and so he didn't get overwhelmed as often. It was only on the worst days that this actually happened, and it was never something they talked about afterwards. 

Right now, Woody just tries to sit still. The helmet is solid and he doesn't want to accidentally slam Herman in the face with it, but he's still so frustrated. Sometimes the helmet was unsettling in how much it makes things  _different_ , but in this moment Woody wishes that it would start working right again. He resists the urge to scream. People get nervous when Woody gets loud, and there aren't really Police here, but he might wind up getting in trouble anyway. 

He tries to breathe. Forces in gasps of stale air and tries not to think about anything else. He can't even begin to try to think about anything else because he'll lose it all over again, and he doesn't want to make Herman sit here any longer than he needs to. 

Woody opens his eyes just in time to see the lights go off. 

"Kid, why'd you turn the lights off?" Hagan asks irritably from the doorway. 

"Light's get annoying," is Zach's matter of fact reply. He doesn't offer any explanation past that.

"Woody, you alright man?" Herman asks, and Woody nods and pulls back and wishes he could wipe his fucking face dry. His hands bump ineffectually against the visor again instead. 

"I thought you wouldn't do that sort of thing anymore," Hagan admits, breaking the silence before it can become uncomfortable as Woody's hands fall back into his lap. 

Woody shrugs, "It didn't  _fix_ me," he confesses, "Just makes it easier." 

Apparently not right now, though. Maybe the helmet gets overwhelmed like Woody does (Maybe it gets overwhelmed  _because_ Woody does. He really wishes that it wasn't up to him to figure out how this thing worked.) 

"Do the scientists know that?" Hagan asks slowly, his face pulled low in a frown. 

Woody tries not to shuffle guiltily, and doesn't do a very good job. "They didn't really  _ask_ ," he mutters, "and I didn't want to disappoint anyone. I don't think these helmets were made for people like me." 

Everyone else goes quiet again, and Woody tries not to sigh. The tear tracks are sticky dry on his cheeks. 

"Well then tell them that dumbass," Zach says finally, "Tell 'em to fuck off when they're bugging you about that smart shit if you're not actually smart." 

Woody knows that he's right, knows that he should say  _something_ , but he also knows that he just can't. "No, I-I-I-," he breaks off with a growl of frustration. Woody  _doesn't like_ to disappoint people, he disappoints people enough just by being himself and so he hates making it worse. They'll either figure out that Woody isn't the genius that they think he is on their own, or they won't ever find out, because Woody can't explain it on his own. 

"Alright, calm down kid. I'll talk to them if you can't," Hagan says, dropping a hand onto Woody's shoulder, and Woody thinks of the man doing the same thing before all of this happened, offering to lie to Woody's mom about why he's being driven home in a squad car  _again_ , and Woody nods wordlessly. They'll be disappointed and it'll be Woody's fault, but it won't be as bad if he's not the one who has to tell them. "Try not to let it get this bad again, alright? Let us know when you need help. We're a team now; that's how teams work." 

Zach's voice comes out from around the door frame, like he's looking out. "Uh, I think they're getting pissed cuz we're late." 

"You want to hang back here?" Herman asks, "I'll chill too. C'mon, give me an excuse to hang back." 

"No, I can go," Woody says, staggering to his feet and trying once again to wipe his face dry. The practices are hard, but it's the same loud kinetic  _fun_ as hanging out with Herman Before, and Woody likes the sameness even though it's different. 

Herman groans exaggeratedly from the floor and Hagan kicks him lightly and tells him to get up before turning back to Woody, "Alright, but let us know. We're a team, remember?" 

"A team," Woody echoes in agreement, and the word tastes warm in his mouth, a promise and a reminder. It helps. Woody has always done better with help, but no one before was ever really willing to do it. "A team," he whispers to himself, and smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Zach hasn't featured big in any of my fics yet, but I'm pretty sure that he will eventually. My other fic about Woody is about 5000 words now, but I can't figure out how to actually wrap it up so IDK when that one will get posted lol.  
> [my tumblr](http://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


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